by K. C. Herbel
John knew that he was next for her blade, so he pulled himself up and prepared to defend himself, but the woman didn’t moved. She just lay there, with a hand on her dagger and her head on the large man’s chest. John quickly found the man’s sword and approached her with caution. He struggled with the sword’s weight as he put it to her side. He gave her a push and jumped back as she started to move. She rolled over and lay motionless next to her opponent. Then John saw it—there in her side, between the plates of her armor—John’s new companion had managed to plant his own knife.
The man suddenly gasped, and John saw that he lived. By some miracle he was still alive. John knelt beside him and cradled his head. The robust warrior lay dying in John’s arms. He coughed weakly, and a small line of blood ran from one side of his mouth. His chest was wet with gore around the black dagger planted there. The stranger who had become John’s friend looked groggily at him and tipped his head towards the weapon in his chest. John drew the blade from his chest and disdainfully threw it to the floor. Again John’s friend gasped, and his hand grasped his chest. He smiled faintly at John as his life’s blood flowed through his fingers. He clumsily reached into his tunic. A moment later he held out a bloody hand to John, who clenched it. John felt something pressed between their hands as the large man weakly squeezed. John squeezed back strongly, reassuringly, hoping to comfort the dying man. The man wheezed, then his lips silently mouthed several words. John leaned forward and listened, as the warrior whispered his last breath into his ear.
“His noble mother’s,” he said, giving a light squeeze to John’s hand.
John felt the man’s grip slacken—his body went limp, and he knew that it was over. The stranger, his friend, was dead. He let his lifeless hand drop to his side and released the body gently to the floor. He closed the man’s eyes and painfully stood to look down at the calm, still face and body. Somehow the man didn’t seem so large anymore—a mere shadow of the great warrior—as if when life had left him, all that remained was a shell, which shrunk like a corn husk in the sun.
John felt something in his hand and, remembering, looked to see what the dying man had thought so important. What was it he had said? A small ring rested in John’s blood-smeared palm. “His noble mother’s?” John wiped the blood from his hand and the ring. He looked at it briefly and put it into his purse. He would have time to examine it closely later, or so he hoped. For now, he had more pressing matters to worry about.
Exhausted, John picked up the babe and stepped out of the shattered shack. As he rounded the corner of the stable, he saw the smoldering, charred ruins of the inn. He fell to his knees, nearly dropping the baby. Suddenly tears poured from his eyes. He squeezed the baby close as his body shook, and he rocked forward onto his forehead.
“Moira, Moira,” he sobbed into the dirt. “William . . .”
John rolled onto his back and stared at the dark sky. The valley was still. He wished he were dead.
At that moment, a cold drop of water struck his cheek, and it began to drizzle. He didn’t move until the baby began to cry. He stared blankly at the child then slowly dragged himself to his feet. He glanced once more at the remains of his inn and hurried back to the stable.
The woman’s vigorous assault had damaged the roof of the shack, and now it was leaking, so he hid in one of the stalls and waited. He waited for another attack, for the rain to stop, for his heart to stop pounding, for his world to stop churning. He hoped that the ordeal was over, but as he started to fade into unconsciousness, he was haunted by the thought that it might never be over.
* * *
John awoke to the cry of the baby. He had been waking up to it about this same time every day since the baby had come to live with him. That fateful day when they first met was now a memory five months old. Some nights he lay awake, wetting his pillow with tears for his Moira and the child he had lost. The baby was the only thing that truly took John’s mind off them.
The strange journal he had found on Sir Sedgemore, the large man who died protecting the babe, was little comfort. From reading its tale, John could gather little about the child’s history. Sir Sedgemore, Lady Enaid, his compatriot, and the child’s mother were all apparently members of some noble court, and the father of the child was their liege lord. John got the impression that there had been some long-standing friction between the clans of the mother and father, but being so far removed from any such court, John had no idea of their nationalities or troubles. John’s limited reading ability made it difficult, but as he worked through the story, it filled him with sorrow, loathing, and finally fear.
According to Sir Sedgemore:
“Directly after the child’s birth, my lord was poisoned against his wife, that most fair of ladies, and mother of his only heir. This villainous deed was perpetrated by his newest adviser—his cousin. No doubt accomplished with the aid of sorcery. That beguiling serpent! May he burn eternally in the pit of hell for it.
“I now know that my lord was driven to madness, and thus, forgetting his great love for her, slaughtered his dear wife. He would have done like to their son, had she not received premonitions that such a horrible thing might come to pass.
“On the eve of that most foul crime, she managed to spirit the child away with the aid of her most loyal friends, Lady Enaid and myself. She then stayed behind, buying her son’s escape with her life.
“And now, though I am surely named ‘traitor,’ I know I have done only what was right! I shall uphold my vow to the child’s mother. In so doing, may I better serve my lord. My only regret is that I may never see my beloved wife and son again.”
“With no ships leaving Dyven, we are forced to find another means to escape Lyonesse. Perhaps in the Bay of Lions we will secure passage to Damnonia or Albion. I only hope we reach his mother’s people before our hunters can catch us. May God grant us speed!”
They must have been far from home, thought John. King William would never allow such wicked feuding and sorcery in his kingdom.
The journal ended abruptly with never any mention of who the mother’s people were, or even where they might be found. So John had no choice but to take in the child, whom he had pledged to protect.
John eventually accepted the risks that came with taking care of the child. His story for the townsfolk was that Moira had saved their son, William, from the fire but died when she attempted to rescue two guests.
All told, five people lost their lives in the raid: Moira, William, the stable boy, and two unfortunate travelers, but no one would ever know that his son had died. John alone would mourn the loss of his child but knew that it must be. He held a private funeral for Moira and secretly buried their son in her arms. He then planted two heartsease flowers, Moira’s favorite, on the site.
The night of the raid, shortly after the rain stopped, John had taken the bodies of Sir Sedgemore and his slayer to a secluded wood far behind the inn. Slowed by his injuries, John was most of the night burying them. The woman’s elegant armor and weapons evaporated with the first light of dawn, which caused him great discomfort even when she was under many stones. From that moment, John was constantly on the lookout for suspicious characters.
Still, all this trouble paled when compared with the love in his heart for the babe. Its seed had been planted from the very moment he had seen the child and was now in full blossom.
John had come to accept the child as his own and was starting over. He had a new son, and their new inn would be open to guests soon. He worked hard and watched it go up day by day, board by board. Now it was almost complete. In the same way, his love for the child had grown. At first, he had tried to blame the boy for the death of his family and to keep some distance between them, but it is folly for a man lost in a stormy sea to push away the one thing keeping his head above water. And so John clung to the child, and each day made the child dearer to him.
“Now, what is it, wee one?” he said as he came to the child’s crib-side and picked him up. “Hungry again
, are we? Well, let’s see what we’ve got in the kitchen.”
John took the child and talked to him as he prepared the milk. “Well, my boy, soon this inn of ours will be open again, and you’ll have to help the old man with some of the chores.”
The babe looked up at him with an expression of puzzlement.
“Well, maybe not right away, mind ya, but soon as you learn to get your own milk.” John paused a moment in contemplation then continued. “I’ve also been thinkin’ about your name. Five months is a bit long to be callin’ someone ‘wee one.’ I guess I’ve been waitin’ for ya to tell me your name, but if I wait too long, you’ll be complainin’ over a tankard of ale that you haven’t got one.
“My first son’s name was William, after our good king, and for your safety, that is the name you must carry. I thought, to avoid any curses, I should call you by your Christian name, but alas I’ve no way of knowin’ what that is. So, I guess I must christen thee myself and hope for the best.”
John dipped his thumb into the water and touched it to the baby’s forehead, making the sign of the cross. “I christen thee William,” he said. “I don’t think my other William would mind. You two are like brothers now. Oh yes, I mustn’t forget . . . Holy God, bless this child, William, and watch over him. Amen.
“Next we’ll christen this inn. Just think, a double christening. A new son and a new inn. The finest son and the finest inn in the whole bloomin’ valley. What do ya think of that, William?” John chuckled and swung the baby in his arm. “I rather like the sound of that name. Why with a name like that, you should grow up big and strong . . . if ya drink all your milk. Now drink up.”
Chapter IV
The Ring
The ring—his noble mother’s—or so said Sir Sedgemore with his dying breath. The delirious ramblings of a dying man . . . or a friendly warning?
Such were John’s thoughts as he sat up, late at night, pondering the mysterious ring he rolled between his forefinger and thumb. It was a simple band, crafted in gold with a single small stone, looking much like a dewdrop resting on a leaf. The strange stone’s iridescent rainbow of hues blended and shifted randomly in the light, half hypnotizing the viewer. Save for the gem, it appeared quite plain—nothing more than an ordinary ring. But appearances, as they say, can be most deceiving—deceiving in a way that John was just beginning to realize.
The ring had been in his possession since Sedgemore placed it in his hand. From that time, strange dreams and nightmares plagued his sleep—visions of creatures with dirty near-human faces, childlike grins, and large black eyes, like deer. Their grubby long-fingered hands would touch him, pinch him, cling to him, poke and prod him. They probed his flesh—his very essence—for something unknown, something alien. Some of the hands recoiled shyly when they touched him, others seemed to caress him kindly, and still more went on probing and probing, never seeming to find what they were looking for. This would go on and on and on, until John’s mind could not bear another second of the smothering hands on his flesh. He would bolt upright and find himself alone in his bed. A lingering presence, like eyes upon him, was always there to greet him. Often he would panic and jump up to check on his son, sleeping in his crib across the room. At times he allowed himself to fall asleep in the rocking chair with the boy still in his arms. He would awaken and hold the baby close, looking into the dark corners of the room. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but always he would find the ring nearby.
This night was such a night, and, as usual, John eventually found himself alone in his kitchen with the ring. It seemed to him that the ring was somehow responsible for his nightmares, but he could not rid himself of it. He hid it away in his handkerchiefs, afraid to let anyone see it, only to find it, some days later, back in his purse. More disturbing than this was his son’s dependence on the ring. Without the ring, John could not calm the boy when his crying fits came; however, with the ring, William would be calmed immediately, even if sick with fever. The ring worked like a charm—like magic! In fact John suspected it was magic, even though a priest had told him not to believe in such “poppycock and superstition.” Yet there was no denying the strange presence emanating from the ring. It was a strong presence, so strong in fact that John sometimes spoke aloud to the ring.
“What do you want of me?” he would ask the ring out of frustration. “I’m takin’ good care of the boy. Now leave me alone!”
Then he would put the ring back into its hiding place, and for several nights thereafter, perhaps a fortnight, he would sleep easy. No alien creatures invaded his sleep.
But on this night, John didn’t ask the ring any questions or make any promises. He didn’t speak to the ring at all. He only contemplated the ring. The stretches of peaceful rest had grown shorter and shorter, and now John’s mind began to unravel. A thought formed in his head: the thought of ridding himself of the odious ring forever. He didn’t care what magical powers it had. He only wanted sleep.
John took the ring and donning a hat and cloak went out into the cold winter night. He trudged across the muddy snow to the stable and took a shovel and pick from the wall in the tool room. Without hesitation, he marched out the back into the woods, the snow crunching under his feet.
He walked into the white frosted forest until he lost sight of the inn. The wood looked very different wearing its winter cloak. The only things familiar were his own footprints in the snow.
He leaned the shovel against the trunk of an ancient yew and broke the ground beneath the snow with his pick. He shoveled and picked at the nearly frozen ground until his hands were raw and a sizable hole was before him. He then took the ring from his purse and dropped it unceremoniously into its freshly dug grave.
Calmly looking into the dark hole, he said, “Good-bye! William won’t be needin’ ya any longer. I am his father, and mother now!” With that, he placed a large stone over the ring and covered up the hole, packing it firmly with his shovel.
John turned around, suddenly feeling as if he were being watched. A rocky outcropping protruded from the snowbank across from him. He stiffened when he recognized it as the grave of Sir Sedgemore.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said, “but it’s better this way.”
John turned to kick snow over his recent excavation. Then nodded to Sir Sedgemore and strolled towards home feeling a great burden lifted from his shoulders.
Halfway home, he got the notion that he better hurry, as he’d been gone from the inn for quite a while, and William might need him. Besides, it was cold out, and he wanted to be in front of a warm fire.
John arrived home, shivering with cold, to find his baby boy sleeping peacefully, just as he’d left him. Seeing that all was well, he went to the commons room of the inn and started a large fire. Warming himself before the blaze, he thought of his guests, quietly sleeping, blissfully unaware of his troubles, dreaming pleasant dreams no doubt. The thought of his guests dreaming peacefully above helped to take the chill off, and he began to relax and make preparations for their breakfast.
As John measured out flour for his famous biscuits, he heard William stir in their room. He put aside his cooking and went up to see what had caused his son to awaken.
William lay in the crib, blinking and rubbing his puffy little eyes and frowning as if he were about to cry. Swiftly John went to the child and gathered him up in his arms.
“What is it, William?” he said softly, feeling for wet diapers. “No. Not wet diapers . . . Humph? Are ya hungry, my boy? . . . No? What is it then?”
Then John realized that the boy was at ease, and the fit had been averted. His son had only wanted some attention, he thought. Joyfully he gave his son a loving hug and placed him back in the crib.
“I’ve got to go downstairs,” he said to the boy. “I’ll be right back with some warm milk! Won’t that be nice?”
Triumphantly, John left the boy and went back to the kitchen. He had quieted the boy, and he had done it without the ring! He was very pleased with himsel
f and proud of his baby boy.
He still hadn’t lit the stove for breakfast, as it was early yet. He needed a fire in the stove to warm his son’s milk, so without any further delay he went to the stove and prepared kindling and wood to light. But where were the lighting splints? He looked around the kitchen and didn’t see any. Out of habit, he reached into his belt pouch. A sudden chill went through his body. It started at his fingers and went up his arm, filling him up with bitter cold. His fingers fumbled around in his purse, feeling the object they had found there unexpectedly. It was round and hard and oh so very cold.
John reluctantly removed his clenched fist from the pouch and held it in front of his face. He opened his hand cautiously, as if opening a bear trap. In the center of his quivering palm sat the ring. John sank down into his frame, like a scarecrow.
The ring? Hadn’t he buried it in the hole? Perhaps he had buried something else by mistake. John blinked very deliberately in an attempt to wipe away the image. The stone stared up at him like a small glaring eye. He felt its icy, disapproving stare and threw it into the stove with disgust. It rattled around and came to rest in the ash pit.
“Confound you!” he shouted into the stove and slammed its heavy iron door.
Suddenly he remembered where he had left the splints. With purpose he went into the commons room and over to the fireplace where a blaze was still burning brightly. He took a splint from the mantel, lit it in the fire, and marched back to the kitchen with the intention of melting down the cursed ring.
He found the ring in the ashes and lit the fire, making sure the ring would be in the hottest part. Surely fire would melt the soft gold band or at least shatter the stone. He watched the fire swallow up the object of his fears before he closed the stove door with a sigh of relief.